Tuesday, April 19, 2011

how does springend, my dovedoes it blendand bleed into summer-love or will itrun along another bend which leads to stationof abandoned townwith sun-bleached signsof forgotten nameand porterswho are but ghostsof former selvesits dusty platformwith boarded-up hallsstrewn with tumbleweedblown-in by Chancediscarded thereas though runaway or progeny of refugeesas i?

Thursday, February 3, 2011

mine has an underbellynot the soft sort a mollycoddled whore might haveitself an elevated postdeemed bestowed with fortune—demanding much fawningand fanfare

[akin to stardom therewhere leisure is two winksor a nod.lavished with three squaresa tin shackadorned by a single, red lamp lit bloodshot, outsideevery... single... nighta straw-bed inside to sleep onafter each routine, providential fuck most of all for the few bucks which she may tuck away for a week's rent; that at month's endshe sends something homeis consideredluck]

mineis scaled & roughcoarser stilllike crocodile skin—hide, which in and of itselfa curiositysuitable for tanning;a harvest from an ancient beastsplayed and skinned in an industrial lineon that scale

[slaughteredcloser to where it was grownen-mass, on farmsrun by firms flaunting logosof tamarind treesand palms]

guts and gore tossed into the riverherself grateful for that paltry bountyfor when the torrential floods arrive she knows she will churn it alland cataract

[mixing-in the rest of the decayalong with red, volcanic mud that she will carry the whole rotting lotin torrents and frothwhitewatercareening down sheer facadesas she descends plateaus— furiously ploughing at the fork]

engorging the entire watershed; it is her—her gushing has always quenched a content;

despondent — ululatesfor she knows the rains which swell-up her veins like adders, are stillfour, damned months hence

that from her perch, at a distance,she can clearly see Alexandria burning.